The Case Against Placebo Boyfriends

I don't think I've ever tittered before. I'm not even sure what a titter is. But when the question hit me, that's what I began to do.

"Why don't we just have sex? Right now."

Clint and I don't have sex. He and his brothers live down the street and serve as my surrogate family at the Jersey shore. I realized early on that it was much more important for them to serve that role in my life. Sex changes everything...doesn't it?

We had just finished surfing and a storm was fast approaching so we jumped in my truck and raced back to his house by the bay. While driving, I told him about a sexual dream I had that morning that included a surfer we knew.

"Everything was so open. It was like there were no...rules around sex. You just saw someone and had sex with them. So when Justin [the surfer] appeared in my dream, I went up to him, unzipped his pants, lifted up my skirt and climbed on top of him. It was all very easy, free."

Clint sat silent and tense in the passenger seat. For a moment, I wondered whether telling a male friend intimate details about a sexual dream is a little different than telling a female friend.

When we got back to his house and out of my truck, the black sky tore open and unleashed. Already wet and in our bathing suits, we stood in the pouring rain for a minute or two, enjoying the feeling. This is a perfect summer moment, I thought. Just this.

We grabbed some towels and dried off under the deck, looking out over the bay as the rain came down harder. Then I noticed a strange sensation; it was if the air had become electrified, bouncing back and forth, through me, through him. Everything felt very alive yet very still at the same moment.

Then zap!

Clint turned to me and said, "Why don't we have sex? Right now. For the next hour. Or two." He didn't sound totally serious...but not totally unserious.

That's when the tittering began - a high-pitched, girly laugh that I don't ever remember emitting in the the entirety of my life.

"Really, that's what people would do in this situation. They'd have sex."

"It's true...they would" I managed to say.

Strangely, "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" began playing in my head at full volume. I took a wet barefoot step toward him. That easy, sexual dream version of me was in full agreement with his suggestion.

Why wouldn't we have sex? We spend a lot of time together, we know each other very well, we're kinda hot. We're straight. We only live once. Besides, everyone already thinks I sleep with him and his brothers anyway. Let's give them something to really talk about.

Then the head interjected, reminding me of all of the stupid and annoying things Clint has said and done in the past, how careless he's been with my feelings, how terribly...dudelike he can be. If we did have sex, it would suck afterward. He'd potentially tell others how he "tagged" me. Or he'd share with me in detail how much he likes the ass of some chick on the beach, later that very afternoon. And I'd feel disgusted and annoyed. Definite step back.

But what are these stand-in, placebo boyfriend types for anyway? They just kind of hog up time and space that could be dedicated to someone you really like. Why not at least use them to their maximum capacity?

Another step forward.

Filler men can be so frustrating. So much feels right and natural. You have nothing romantically invested in a faux boyfriend, so you relax and truly act yourself. Sure, we all want to believe we're really "ourselves" with our significant other but there's a special lack of concern for a stand-in boyfriend that feels pretty good. I call Clint a moron whenever I damn well please, for instance. He tells me to shut the fuck up when the urge hits him. Easy like Sunday morning.

So why mess up that magic? There's no undoing sex once it's been had.

Step back.

"I need to...iron my clothes."

" You need to what?"

"You heard me, moron. I have ironing. To do."

And with that, I walked left.

Later that day, Clint would introduce me to his friend as his "surfing buddy and neighbor" (which, trust me, he would have done, even if we had sex.) I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't made a sexually grievous error. Placebos are made up of sugar and have no real medicinal effect whatsoever. But I guess if you don't know any better, placebos can do the trick. Unfortunately, I know better.

A Boring Story Told Dramatically

I often ponder whether I should say something. Or perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it's not her fault, I continue to blame her - every day of my goddamn life.

Pam told me to buy a “better” coffeemaker. You’re not in college anymore, she said. Don’t buy a cheapo. I agreed. I didn’t have to buy your basic $15 coffeemaker anymore. I could buy something a bit more sophisticated. Upscale. And that’s exactly what I did.

I looked at Pam as we exited the store and thought, “That’s what friends are for. They guide, advise. Thanks, friend.” She caught me looking at her and I smiled, gratefully. She smiled back, knowingly.

Little did I know those innocent smiles would portend a domestic nightmare from which I could not awake. Since the arrival of the new coffeemaker, my life has become a living hell, unpredictable, full of torment.

Why, you question?

Because the coffee filter often folds in on itself during the drip process. The result is coffee grounds in my coffee.  But wait! No! Not just grounds in my coffee: weaker coffee because the water doesn't drip through properly – lifeless, tepid brown, gritty water, unfit fit for a septic tank.

In short, my life has been irrevocably altered. Every morning now, I walk into my kitchen with trepidation. Will this be a good coffee day or a bad coffee day? I never know. I never know!

Oh, you think it’s me? It’s something I’m doing wrong? No, no sir. It is not. And I resent your implications that I’m to blame.

Every step is closely monitored to ensure the best possible results. Each filter needs to be in perfect form, not misshapen in the least or chaos will ensue.     Once, I accidentally placed an object on the package of filters and did I pay. Oh, dearly! All the filters were contorted just enough to be problematic, no matter how much I tried to mold them back to their…

Wait, I’m not done!  

Their shape. So for months, I had many bad coffee days. I waited patiently for the day when I could buy new filters, filters in their original, innocent form. Until then, I silently suffered, morning upon morning upon morning.   

When I finally bought a new pack, I can’t express the relief I felt. Maybe now, my life would return to a semblance of normalcy. But guess what, fair reader?

EVEN WITH THE MOST PERFECT COFFEE FILTERS, LIFE IS STILL UNPREDICTABLE!

Oh God, it's so true.

This morning, I looked at the filter and thought, “You’re a good one. You’re in perfect shape. You should serve me well.” But guess what? It didn’t. The motherfucker folded in on itself, again, leaving me to drink hot grit water for breakfast.

No, no…I haven’t told Pam yet. Dare I? Frankly, we haven’t been speaking much lately and occasionally I wonder if this coffee maker business is the real reason. She misled me and I feel...

Listen! I said, listen!

Betrayed. There are lots of things I can look beyond in a friendship. Hell, we all have our flaws, right? But I can’t seem to move past something of this magnitude. I’m not Jesus, you know! I can’t just turn the other cheek all the time.

Or perhaps its time to turn that pointing finger back to the real source of the problem: me. Had I not been so gullible, so eager to “keep up with the Joneses”, I might have said, “You know what Pam - YOU may need a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles. But I don’t. I’m a simple woman with simple needs. Now back the hell off!”

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with the consequences of being a mindless sheep for some time to come.

Hope for me a good coffee day tomorrow. I shall do the same for you.

God speed.

Boring Story Told Dramatically – Part Une

I often ponder whether I should say something to her. Or perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it's not her fault, I continue to blame her - every day of my goddamn life.

Pam told me to buy a “better” coffeemaker. You’re not in college anymore, she said. Don’t buy a cheapo. I agreed. I didn’t have to buy your basic $15 coffeemaker anymore. I could buy something a bit more sophisticated. Upscale. And that’s exactly what I did.

I looked at Pam as we exited the store and thought, “That’s what friends are for. They guide, advise. Thanks, friend.” She caught me looking at her and I smiled, gratefully. She smiled back, knowingly.

Little did I know those innocent smiles would portend a domestic nightmare from which I could not awake. Since the arrival of the new coffeemaker, my life has become a living hell, unpredictable, full of torment.

Why, you question?

Because the coffee filter often folds in on itself during the drip process. The result is coffee grounds in my coffee. But wait! No! Not just grounds in my coffee: weaker coffee because the water doesn't drip through properly – lifeless, tepid brown, gritty water, unfit fit for a septic tank.

In short, my life has been irrevocably altered.

Every morning now, I walk into my kitchen with trepidation. Will this be a good coffee day or a bad coffee day? I never know. I never know!

Oh, you think it’s me? It’s something I’m doing wrong? No, no sir. It is not. And I resent your implications that I’m to blame.

Every step is closely monitored to ensure the best possible results. Each filter needs to be in perfect form, not misshapen in the least or chaos will ensue. Once, I accidentally placed an object on the package of filters and did I pay. Oh, dearly! All the filters were contorted just enough to be problematic, no matter how much I tried to mold them back to their…

Wait, I’m not done!

Their shape. So for months, I had many bad coffee days. I waited patiently for the day when I could buy new filters, filters in their original, innocent form. Until then, I silently suffered, morning upon morning upon morning. When I finally bought a new pack, I can’t express the relief I felt. Maybe now, my life would return to a semblance of normalcy. But guess what, fair reader?

EVEN WITH THE MOST PERFECT COFFEE FILTERS, LIFE IS STILL UNPREDICTABLE!

Oh God, it's so true.

This morning, I looked at the filter and thought, “You’re a good one. You’re in perfect shape. You should serve me well.” But guess what? It didn’t. The motherfucker folded in on itself, again, leaving me to drink hot grit water.

No, no…I haven’t told Pam yet. Dare I? Frankly, we haven’t been speaking much lately and occasionally I wonder if this coffee maker business is the real reason. She misled me and I feel...

Listen! I said, listen!

Betrayed. There are lots of things I can look beyond in a friendship. Hell, we all have our flaws, right? But I can’t seem to move past something of this magnitude. I’m not Jesus, you know! I can’t just turn the other cheek.

Or perhaps its time to turn that pointing finger back to the real source of the problem: me. Had I not been so gullible, so eager to “keep up with the Joneses”, I might have said, “You know what Pam - YOU may need a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles. But I don’t. I’m a simple woman with simple needs. Now back the hell off!”

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with the consequences of being a mindless sheep for some time to come.

Hope for me a good coffee day tomorrow. I shall do the same for you.

God speed.

Karaoke as Cheap Therapy

Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” – Kurt Vonnegut

"I think it heals the soul," she whispers, as if a secret.

"I think it does too, Aunt." I reply.

My Aunt Mary Lou and I are on the phone. We're talking about singing instead of addressing her daughter, who is dying of cancer. My aunt needs a break.

"Do you still sing, Bethy?"

Hearing "Bethy" always warms my heart. It's my child name.

"Yes, Aunt. I do. I sang with a choir for the last few years. I even sang a solo once."





[Me singing with a small group ensemble in Brooklyn's Bella Voce. It's an Emily Dickinson poem put to music. I'm one of the two altos.]



"Really!" my Aunt Mary Lou exclaims. "Well, isn't that wonderful. How about now?"

"Well, it's kind of...stupid. It's...I just sing karaoke sometimes at the local bar here."

"That's not stupid, Bethy. That's practice."

I smile, wiping away a wandering tear. My cousin is my age. She had a routine gall bladder surgery and found cancer. Lots of it. Suddenly, she has weeks to live.

"It is practice, Aunt. I'm not sure for what but..."

"Life. It's practice for life."

Back in the day, my mother and father, my aunts and uncles, would sing all night long, if you let them. That's when people were more full of goodness, it seemed; content with sitting around a kitchen table until the wee hours, connecting, conversing, debating, joking, laughing, singing songs - just being simpler and happier. Before computers. Before cell phones. Before a million TV channels. Before a great disconnect.




[My family sitting around singing in 1971. That's me at 4 singing in the background.]

Occasionally the gang would go out to a local piano bar, sipping the same drink all night and singing until their voices became whispers the next day. I loved watching the women prepare for their big night out - coral lipstick, bright floral patterns, hairspray...layers and layers of hairspray.

[My Aunt Mary Lou on the left.]

Years later, after many of the old crew had died, I would visit my aunt in Pittsburgh and she would insist on us singing. She'd sit down at her organ - those crazy organs with a million buttons - and start playing at full volume. And I was expected to sing...loudly. Show tunes, I remember.

"I am sixteen, going on seventeen," I'd sing. (Although I was 34 going on 35.)

"I enjoy being a girl!" I'd meekly proclaim.

"Louder, with feeling. Sing it out, Bethy!" she'd demand, a Kool cigarette dangling out of her mouth.

"Come on, Aunt, please. I'm not very good."

"What the hell does that matter? Just sing! You're too damn shy."

(Interestingly enough, coming from a pretty rowdy bunch, I'm still considered the wallflower.)

So I would sing. For her, for me. I'd return to singing again and again, as a source of soul therapy.

I'm not a great singer but I love to sing. A definite difference. Being in the company of good musicians over the years, I've realized how difficult it is to sing well. I've studied voice, practiced hard, and yet I can't always correct it certain issues.

That used to eat me up inside. I wanted to sing 100% well or not at all. My fierce self-loathing would often throttle me before I could even open my mouth. But I kept trying.

In New York, I was fortunate enough to sing with an amazing women’s choir. During our concerts, I’d feel transported by the music and the other women’s voices, like angels on high. When I left the city, it was one of the few aspects of my life there I genuinely missed.

At the Jersey shore, the outlets to sing are few and far between. So with a thread of embarrassment, I found myself going to karaoke on the weekends at a local grungy bar.

What’s there to say about karaoke that hasn’t already been mocked? Yes, it can be bloody awful, an insult to real music and occasionally just plain circus-style creepy. This place was no exception. But desperate times called for desperate measures, so there I was each weekend, singing everything from Led Zeppelin to Barry Manilow.

Slowly I became part of a peculiar yet kind sub-culture of fellow wannabe singers that cheered and supported me even if I kinda sucked. Because the name of the game wasn’t to nail it but to simply try. A perfection-free zone where I could practice singing and if I failed? Who cares? It’s just karaoke.

As months passed and I got a little bolder, my singing evolved into a kind of performing. I’d allow myself to be taken by a song. I’d dance or act out a song. Who cares? It’s just karaoke.

Once in a while, I’d experience this feeling of transcendence, simply by letting my voice free. It became a form of soul therapy. I’d go home feeling at peace and charged up…and drunk, yes drunk.

I practiced in my bedroom a lot. Which could be awkward. Because others can hear you and it’s hard to sing past that self-consciousness. Then you even push yourself past that feeling, forcing yourself to not care. Or to sing anyway. Exposing your voice. It’s so nude.

Years ago, a friend pretended to strangle me, as a joke. The moment her hands reached my neck, I started sobbing, much to her and my surprise. That area of the body can be so loaded with energy. My mom was dying at the time so somehow my emotions were just stuck there. Singing moves it through you. That’s the magic of it.  

Over the years, my singing has gotten better but I certainly not great. I’ve joined a rock band. We suck a bit truth be told. But it’s not about perfection. It’s the expression that matters.

When it comes to singing (literally or metaphorically), it’s easy to be strangled by insecurities or crippled by perfectionism. You may flail and cringe at what you’ve created. You may meet up with old monsters that want to destroy you for even thinking of trying. But if you allow yourself to create in spite of it all, you just may save your soul.


Beth does Karaoke from Beth Mann on Vimeo.



(Leo Sayer, singing the song maybe a little better than me. Okay, a lot. But note, his open-throated sound and dead-on diction. That's solid technique.)

(After Gary introduced me to the better mike.)


There are Worse Things I could do....really. from Beth Mann on Vimeo.